


and summer comes again

by avatarsarny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-19 21:16:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18978505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avatarsarny/pseuds/avatarsarny
Summary: How GoT ended in my head, because D&D's bad fanfic version can go in the dumpster where it belongs. A series of post S8 vignettes, mostly Arya/Gendry, along with other pairings/characters.





	and summer comes again

**Author's Note:**

> For context: In my head, everything ended similarly to the show version with some notable adjustments: Jon is not exiled to the (nonexistent) Night’s Watch; he decides against being king and goes to bring the Wildlings back down to the North with Tormund (bc the lands beyond the wall are a barren wasteland wtf) and thereafter settles at Winterfell to be Hand to Queen Sansa. Bran is made King of the 6 kingdoms as he was in the show, with Tyrion as his Hand and ruling with his council. Jaime did not turn on Brienne in the last moment, didn’t erase years of character development, and instead left to kill Cersei himself, finally realizing the disease she really was, and became Queenslayer for the good of the realm. He survives Daenerys’ attack on KL and is serving Bran in the new Kingsguard, under Brienne the Commander.
> 
> Finally, Arya does not randomly decide to become Christopher Columbarya and sail the ocean blue, erasing years of her own journey to finally be home with her family again, no sirs, she finds Gendry after the sack of KL, after she realizes what Sandor was trying to tell her to do, to choose life, and tells him to ask her again. You can guess the rest from what you read below :)
> 
> And in keeping with the pack survives narrative (bc that’s what good writing is about!! Consistency!!) the Starks remain closer than ever, visit each other often, and don’t end up alone and separated! 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

“And reinforcements from the Stormlands will arrive tomorrow, Your Grace, if I’m not mistaken. Lord Buckler of Bronzegate sent me a raven saying twenty ships worth of food and supplies will be here just after sunrise.”

 

Bran nods in approval and looks up at the sunlight streaming in through the windows of the newly - reconstructed Royal Council solar. Daenerys’ rampage had left little of the Red Keep standing, but some of the personal chambers had remained mostly intact, so the new King and his council lived in close quarters for the past three months while they supervised the city’s recovery. There were still many injured and many more starving, so Bran called upon every Lord and leader in Westeros, high and low, to contribute whatever they could to the city’s smallfolk; who had suffered the most.

 

 

Bran glances over at the man across him. His blue eyes are bright with belonging and purpose, his dark hair is gradually breaking free of the short crop he had sported when Bran had first met him, and he wears fine leathers in same way his father and uncles had, only this time adorned with clawlike marks on the shoulders of his tunic.

 

 

The young King smiles at this observation. Stags don’t have claws. But he can think of another animal that does.

 

 

Gendry catches his gaze. “What is it, Your Grace?”

 

 

Bran’s smile grows ever so slightly. “When is my sister returning, my Lord? It’s been a fortnight since her last raven.”

 

Gendry sighs and looks out a window, where the city gates rise from the sea of ruined buildings far out in the distance on one end, and the azure waters of Blackwater Bay lay calm and still on the other. “I’m not sure. She said she wouldn’t leave Queen Sansa at Winterfell until she’s made sure she’ll be well protected.”

 

“Won’t Jon be there soon?”

 

Gendry blinks. “Yes - er - I didn’t know that until this morning - got a raven from Tormund. How’d you find out?”

 

Bran throws him an unimpressed glance. “Well I  _am_  the three eyed raven. I flew over Jon and Tormund’s group last night. They’ve settled the Wildlings in some unoccupied lands about a day’s ride from Winterfell. Sansa wants Jon to be her Hand, and it looks like Jon’s agreed to it.”

 

Gendry nods slowly, trying to process the King’s extraordinary statement in a way he can understand. “I’ve heard of your abilities, Your Grace, but forgive me, I’m not sure how one flies when they can’t even walk. But if what you say is true, then you can see where your sisters are, too, can’t you?” He grins then, and maybe in front of a different King he’d be punished for his audacity, but Bran is no ordinary King. And Gendry has never been one to worship the ground at a highborn’s feet.

 

But he’ll fight for any one of the Starks. Arya and her family time and again showed kindness and mercy to the common folk, and beneath their ferocious direwolf fangs they shared a gentleness for the innocent that Gendry had rarely seen among the rich and powerful. Even Sansa, the Red Wolf of the North, held a great tenderness concealed beneath her icy, calculating exterior, and people everywhere adored her for it.

 

Bran’s smile widens into a true grin, then - a feat so rare Gendry thinks he should get Grand Maester Samwell to check on their King’s health.

 

“Yes, I can see everything. Anything, anywhere, at any point in time. But sometimes it’s nice to put it all away for a while, and be a normal man. Or at least act like it,” he replies. “I did see Arya, by the way. It appears she’ll be staying in Winterfell for a few more weeks before she starts her journey back here.”

 

Gendry’s face falls, but he catches himself and hopes the King doesn’t notice. The least she could do is send a raven, but she’s been oddly silent since her last message to him, and he’s getting worried. If she doesn’t send more word soon, he’ll go off to Winterfell himself.

 

Bran quirks a brow at him. “Storm’s End needs someone like you, someone who will take care of the people. Your uncles left the Stormlands in such disarray, but the Stormlords are willing to follow your command. Don’t worry about my sister, she can handle herself.” He smiles serenely at the former blacksmith.

_But what about me?_  Gendry thinks.  _Does she not understand that every day we’re separated feels like an eternity to me?_

_None of it will mean anything, if you aren’t with me, so be with me…_

 

It will be nearly four months since Arya left to help Sansa settle into her role as Queen in the North. Four months since he last held her in his arms, since he tasted her on his lips and felt the warmth of her smile, since he saw the  _heat_  and tenderness in her gaze she reserved only for him.

 

She had sought him out after the Dragon Queen had stormed King’s Landing, after Jon drove a dagger through his aunt’s heart and liberated all who would come under her tyranny. She had been covered in ash and blood and he’d never felt more fear in his entire life, that he would have to watch her die like this, but she was mostly unhurt, the blood had not been hers, not all of it.

_“_ _Ask me again,_ ” She’d rasped, coughing out grey soot and clutching at him for dear life.  _“I thought I wouldn’t come back from Kings Landing. I was going to die there, and I couldn’t do that to you, I had to refuse,”_  She whispered, tears falling from her eyes and down her grimy face.  _“I couldn’t hurt you.”_

 

And  _oh_ , she had never looked more beautiful, he had never loved her more fiercely than he did in that moment, not even on that night they thought would be their last, when she had kissed him down in the Winterfell stores and made breathless, frantic love to him.  _“You could never hurt me, love,”_  he’d said, gently wiping her tears away and crushing her to his chest. “ _I know you don’t want to be a Lady, I’ve always known. We can go wherever you like. Do whatever you want. I’ll follow you anywhere you go, till the end of my days,”_  he promised, and released her so he could kneel before her in the ash and dust.  _“My life means nothing without my family. Please be my wife. Please be my family, Arya of House Stark.”_

 

And with that, she’d tackled him into the rubble with all the strength she could muster, and kissed him senseless.  _“I love you,”_  She’d breathed against his lips, _“I will be your family. Your - your wife,”_  she broke off in a quiet moan, as he moved to press searing kisses down her throat. She held his face in her hands, stilling his sweet movements to look earnestly up at him.  _“And I will lead by your side, Gendry of House Baratheon.”_

 

He stared at her in shock, his hands coming up to bracket her own.  _“You - you want to rule the Stormlands with me?”_

 

Arya smiled at him, even though it had hurt to do so and her face was bleeding.  _“I want to be here for the people who can’t protect themselves. I want to make our world a better place than the one we grew up in…I couldn’t save them in King’s Landing,”_ she’d paused as more tears tumbled down her cheeks, and he dutifully brushed them away with the pads of his calloused fingers. She would tell him about the girl and her mother, later. The little family that had saved her from the stampede, only to end up burnt beyond recognition in the end.  _“I have to make sure this never happens again.”_

 

Gendry kissed her forehead, the bit of it that wasn’t cut open.  _“As M'lady commands,”_  he’d murmured, threading their fingers together.  _“Now let’s get you a maester.”_

 

_“I also need to teach you how to use a fork, none of those idiot lords will respect you otherwise.”_

 

He'd laughed and scooped her up into his arms. “ _I’ll need all the help I can get. I don’t know any other rich girls willing to teach me._ ”

 

* * *

 

“Lord Gendry?” the King addresses him, drawing his attention away from the cloudless sky, out of his reverie.

 

Gendry starts. “Sorry, Your Grace. I didn’t catch that. I was just - thinking about how we could allocate the food to the city once it arrives tomorrow. I’m thinking we should just set up the distribution points along the docks, that way we won’t need to spend half a day hauling it all through the streets to get to everyone. Most of the needy are already down there, which makes our jobs easier.”

 

He said all this rather quickly.

 

Bran smirks. “Well, I hope this helps you see why you’re the best man for the job. You grew up here. You know the people. And you care, which is the only qualification that matters, in the end.”

 

Gendry turns to his King. “I still don’t know what I’m doing, not really. I know nothing of ruling or leading people, or throwing fancy feasts, or running castles.” 

 

“But you remember what it’s like to live as an outcast, among the very worst of men, to live in the dirt and the muck, and what it’s like to go hungry for weeks on end. You want a world where the powerful protect the weak.” Bran says quietly. “My sister knows this, too. The realm could use more people like you.”

 

Gendry lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in. “I..well, thank you, Your Grace.” He straightens up then, and smooths out the map of King’s Landing he’d been going over before King Bran had entered the room. “Then I will give the realm everything I have to make it a better place. I won’t hesitate.”

 

Bran nods in affirmative. “I’ll be depending on you a lot, Lord Baratheon.”

 

Someone knocks on the doors of the solar just then; Ser Brienne walks through the threshold and bows her head in greeting.

 

“Your guest is here to meet you, Your Grace. Shall I bring them in?” Her eyes slide over to rest on Gendry, a small smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “It’s good to see you, Lord Gendry. You look well.”

 

“As well I could be, Ser Brienne,” he smiles at her. He nearly admits that he could look better, much better, if only his little she-wolf were here with him, and not a thousand miles beyond his reach. But given Brienne’s fierce protectiveness over Arya, he thinks better of it. He’s not sure he could best the formidable Lady Knight in a fight, even with a hammer. 

 

He’d only gotten two days, just two measly days with Arya, before she’d gone north with Sansa. When he sees her again (if ever, he thinks just a little sourly, for she may decide to stay in Winterfell for good, and forget about him, and marry a handsome Northern Lord who knows exactly what he’s doing, especially how to eat with proper utensils.)

 

Seven hells, he is  _pathetic_.

 

Bran nods, his smirk growing wider than ever. “Please bring them in.”

 

Gendry takes this as his cue to leave, and starts gathering up his things. Maybe he’ll seek out Ser Davos and convince him to grab a large jug of ale with him. The Onion Knight always knew what to say. 

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a small figure stroll into the solar, clad in a floor-length gown, with a sword at her hip. 

 

“My King,” the young woman says softly, kneeling in front of Bran, before turning to Gendry. “My love.”

 

Gendry’s jaw drops to the floor, and so do the maps he holds in his arms.

 

He wheels around to see Arya Stark rushing forward to squeeze Bran in a tight hug. 

 

“I missed you, little brother. Sansa is happy and safe, Jon is with her now.”

 

Bran seems to lighten up ever so slightly at the sight of her, a ghost of the boy he used to be flits across his normally blank features, the boy who had looked upon his warrior sister with awe and immense pride, who had wanted to be as good a fighter as she was, well before they knew what fighting really was. He wraps his arms around Arya to squeeze her back.

 

Gendry stands there, taking his betrothed in for the first time in months. She’s wearing a  _dress_ , Gods help him, the long skirts billow out from her waist and clings to her petite figure in a way that sharply forces him to remember he’s in the presence of civilized company, and he immediately tries to control his breathing. 

 

Her hair is just a little longer than the last time he saw her, falling loosely down her back, save for the Northern braids woven at the crown of her head. For once, she looks like the warrior princess she is, and Gendry couldn’t tear his eyes from her if he tried.

 

Bran releases his sister. “I’m happy to hear. It’s been quiet here without you. Although I’m sure Lord Baratheon here felt that more than anyone.”

 

Arya turns to him then, raising one dark brow and raking her storm - grey eyes over him. Just as she’d done back in Winterfell, watching from the shadows as he worked the dragonglass into weapons against the dead, before she had made him hers forever. Gendry barely suppresses a shiver.

 

“Have I surprised you, my Lord?” She laughs, her eyes bright and glinting with mischief. “I’ll bet you thought you’d have a few more weeks of peace without me.”

_Peace?_  He thinks incredulously. He’s felt anything but in her absence. 

 

Gendry moves to open his mouth in a retort, but their King interrupts.

 

“Ser Brienne, I must go off to the upper floors and survey today’s reconstruction progress, and Lord Tyrion has called a council meeting after lunch. If you would be so kind as to take me there?”

 

Brienne looks from Arya to Gendry to the young King, and valiantly attempts to conceal her knowing grin. “Of course, Your Grace.”

 

On their way out, Bran pauses and looks to the pair still standing in the solar. “I’ll be waiting to hear all about Winterfell and how Queen Sansa is faring at dinner tonight. For now though, I suggest you take care of the  _pressing_  matter before you. See you in the Great Hall later.” He waves his sister goodbye, and Brienne hastily converts her snort into a cough as she pushes his wheelchair out the doors.

 

Gendry flushes beet - red as he stares after the King. Arya flashes her betrothed a wolfish grin and steps closer to him. As a girl, she’d loved to rile him up and annoy him till he’d chase her through the forest and muss her boyish locks in revenge. Now, she gets an even bigger thrill simply seeing him blush like a maiden, because of  _her_.

 

She must do it more often.

 

“I like this,” she says, bringing her small hands up to run along the clawlike marks in his leather tunic. “What inspired this break from Baratheon clothing tradition?”

 

“What inspired yours?” He breathes, bringing his own hands to circle her waist, and pull her even closer. “Who forced you into wearing this?” He grins, gesturing to the garment that hugs her form and fans out from her hips, embroidered with leaves and direwolf motifs all over the sleeves and skirts.

 

Arya scowls just a little. “Sansa. She made it for me and ordered me to wear it on my journey home. Does my Lord like it?” She asks coyly, scanning his gaze for his reaction. 

 

She needn’t have asked.

 

His eyes are dark and wanting as they travel over her form, and she suddenly feels so, so warm. Gendry, for his part, makes a mental note to send the Queen in the North a large pile of gold upon his return to Storm’s End.

 

“You’re always beautiful,” he murmurs, “No matter what you’re wearing. Or when you’re wearing nothing at all.” She presses herself flush against him at that, and he has to shut his eyes to keep his thoughts coherent. “I’m very thankful to your sister right now. Hail Queen Sansa, first of her name. May she make you many more dresses to wear. I’m a grateful man.”

 

“I’m glad. I have suffered so in this gown. At least one of us is pleased,” she quips, rolling her eyes.

 

Gendry can’t quite take it anymore, he moves to capture her lips with his own; he _needs_  to taste her once again, needs to breathe in her scent of wildflowers and leather and the spring breeze of the outdoors. He’s just about to close the gap between them when she suddenly wriggles out of his arms.

_Oh_ , Arya has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at the utterly woebegone expression that crosses Gendry’s face as she pulls away.

 

“ _Arya_ ,” he nearly whimpers in exasperation. He looks so forlorn that she almost loses her resolve, but she steels herself and moves away.

 

“Spar with me,” She asks breathlessly.

 

“What?” He blinks down at her, dumbstruck.

 

“I’ve gone four months without a worthy opponent. No one at Winterfell is good enough to best me, except perhaps Jon. And I managed to throw  _him_  on his back just before I left to come here.” She says, just a little smugly.

 

Gendry quirks a brow at her. “And you think _I’m_  the one who could best you, my Lady? I’m not a soldier, as you know.”

 

She locks her dark gaze with his own and moves so that they’re mere inches apart, once again. “No,” She says softly, her hands come to cup his cheeks, stroking the rough stubble that grows there, “But you’re a fighter.” 

 

He smiles at the reference, and leans into her touch. Her hands are soft and cool against his burning skin. 

 

“Meet me in the garden courtyard later. The one with the view of the sea. Bring your hammer. But feel free to leave your leather shirt behind, as lovely as it is.” With that, she pulls his face down to her own, kissing him deeply, her sweet mouth hot and wet, melting against him and causing all sense to leak out of his mind.

 

Their kiss is over far too soon for Gendry’s liking, and she saunters out of the solar. “I’ll be waiting, Milord,” she says, grinning at him over her shoulder, and then she’s gone.

 

Gendry sighs and stares up at the high, vaulted ceiling. “I’m a dead man,” he chuckles to the empty room.

 

* * *

 

The sun is high overhead as Tyrion and Jaime stroll past the balconies overlooking the vast palace gardens. There’s a warm breeze coming off the sea, signaling the winter’s end, and the encroaching summer.

 

 

It’s enough to put a spring in nearly everyone’s step. After the wars ended and Bran was made King, peace descended upon Westeros, and people everywhere watched with cautious optimism in their hearts as the summer flowers began to bloom and the winter chills slowly faded away. 

 

The charred remains of the Red Keep’s gardens had been replaced with exotic plants from every known part of the world, and were open to all who wished to enter, be they the poorest smallfolk or the King himself. But today, the paths and courtyards criss-crossing the greenery were mostly empty, with the rebuilding efforts taking up most of the city’s free time. 

 

Tyrion pauses to look over a particularly scenic vantage point. “I’d say winter is well and truly over, brother.”

 

Jaime smirks, and nods. “Strange that the Starks, who never shut up about winter, would be the ones to end it.”

 

Tyrion chuckles. “I’m not in the least bit complaining.”

 

Jaime smiles down at his younger brother. “Neither am I.”

 

The relative quiet is broken then, by clashes of steel and shouts of triumph. Jaime and Tyrion throw each other bewildered glances, before starting off in the direction of the commotion. 

 

“D’you think someone’s trying to break into the Red Keep again?” Tyrion wonders aloud.

 

“Just another day on the job,” Jaime drawls.

 

The Lannister brothers turn a corner before skidding to a halt on a landing overlooking a large circular courtyard. 

 

“Well well! It appears our Lady Stark has returned from the North.” Tyrion pants, bending over to catch his breath. “I’m very glad I was informed beforehand of her arrival.” He deadpans. “I do love being in the know of what goes on in this city.”

 

Jaime squints curiously down into the courtyard. “It also appears she’s challenged her own betrothed to a duel.” His eyes widen at the sight below him. 

 

A panting Arya Stark, brandishing that skinny little sword she refused to part with, circles a much larger - and barechested - Gendry Baratheon, who wields a warhammer and stares his future wife down, trying to calculate her next move.

 

Tyrion looks upon them with great interest. “It’s like looking at a pair of ghosts,” he says quietly. 

 

Jaime throws his brother a questioning glance. “What d’you mean?”

 

“Look at them.  _Really_  look. Who do they remind you of?”

 

Jaime turns back to the sparring pair below them. And then it hits him. 

 

“Robert and Lyanna,” he breathes. He doesn’t know how he missed it before, but now the resemblance is jarringly uncanny.

 

Gendry - broad shouldered and muscular, looks every bit like young Robert once did, with thick black hair that falls into trademark Baratheon blue eyes. He even wields a hammer in the same way his father did, though he’d never laid eyes on the former King, much less seen the way he’d fought. 

 

Arya, with her dark hair falling wildly about her face, the gleam in her grey Stark eyes, and the grace with which she moves as she swerves away from Gendry’s blows with ease reminds Jaime sharply of how the late Lady Lyanna, the wild Northern beauty, had moved on horseback, with her bow and arrows. 

 

Tyrion smiles sadly at the realization on his brother’s face. “They were a match doomed, and Robert began the war that changed the entire continent for his Lady Lyanna. But the future for these two appears much brighter.  _This_ Baratheon isn’t at all like his father, and  _she_  possesses the foresight her aunt never had. One generation had thousands die fighting in the wars they started, the next helped save many thousands more.” He says, watching them pensively.

 

Jaime only hums in agreement, still intently observing the pair below. The play-fight between the young couple is getting more intense by the second. Amid the flurry of steel and limbs, they’re clearly taking care not to actually hurt one another, but they’re just as certainly not going easy on each other, either.

 

Gendry swings his hammer at the girl with all the famed Baratheon strength he inherited from his father, but Arya is far too quick for him, and she laughs at his attempts to disarm her.

 

“You’re too slow,” she taunts, darting left and pretending to cut him across the belly with Needle. “Dead.” He swipes at her.

 

Arya dodges his blows again, then smacks her blade harmlessly against the back of his neck. “Dead again, Milord,” she grins up at him.

 

Gendry circles her, growling in frustration, catching her eye and nearly making her gasp at the raw desire she sees burning in his gaze.

 

She focuses her attention on the way his raven hair is long enough now to fall across his brow, and watches the play of muscles in his broad chest, slick with sweat, as he draws in rapid breaths and sneaks heated glances at her when he thinks she isn’t looking.

 

She’s missed him so much.

 

Her guard falls just long enough to be her downfall, as Gendry seizes her momentary pause to grab Needle from her hands and toss it aside, and proceeds to tackle her onto the painted mosaic floor of the courtyard.

 

Up on the terrace, Jaime and Tyrion look on in stunned silence. Arya Stark, the Princess that was Promised, the she-wolf who had slayed the Night King, taken down in a mock fight by non other than a former Baratheon bastard.

 

“What’s got you two so suddenly interested in the gardens?”

 

The Lannister brothers whirl around to see the new Master of Ships walking curiously toward them.

 

“His Grace is looking for you both to take lunch with him. Have either of you seen Lord Gendry? I’ve been meaning to ask the lad to come eat meals with me, he’s been looking - er -  _overwhelmed_  lately.”

 

Tyrion chortles. “Your  _lad_  has just managed to knock Azor Ahai herself to the ground in a duel, Ser Davos. It was quite a thing to see.”

 

The Onion Knight’s eyes widen in surprise. “So she’s back, then?” He looks down from the edge of the balcony to see Gendry pin Lady Arya beneath his arms. “I guess he won’t be eating with  _me_ , now.” He watches them wrestle with a fond, sad smile.

 

Jaime smirks down at the pair again. “I’m not sure this match is quite over yet.” 

 

Gendry straddles one of her legs and lays an arm across her chest, securing her beneath him so that she can’t move from his grip. He grins cheekily down at her, pupils blown so wide his eyes are nearly as black as his hair. “You should’ve stood sideface, M’Lady.”

 

Arya stares defiantly up at him, before the mask is dropped completely, and she breaks into a giggle. “So I’ve heard.”

 

The sound of her bubbling laughter is the sweetest music to his ears. “Although I’m not sure how much smaller a target I could get than you,” he murmurs.

 

Their resounding laughter echoes across the deserted gardens, and while Arya’s got him distracted, she twists her hips and flips Gendry onto his back in a swift, deadly maneuver, her Valyrian steel dagger presses up against his throat in a flash. 

 

Check and mate.

 

He blinks dazedly up at her, mesmerized by the way she straddles his waist, her triumphant victory gleaming in his she-wolf’s eyes. The sight brings back wonderful memories of that first night, when she’d pushed him atop those sacks of grain and made him lose himself over and over in  _her_.

 

“I win,” she whispers, breathing hard, and she releases her hold on his wrists to sheath her dagger.

 

“You’ve won,” Gendry agrees. “Show me how you did that.”

 

She smirks down at him, crossing her arms over her chest, her legs still wrapped around his hips. “Not before I claim my prize,” she says, and the lilt in her voice makes his heart hammer in his chest. He suddenly remembers how long they’ve been apart.  _Too damn long_.

 

“And what’s that?” He inquires softly, gazing up at her astride him.

 

Arya hums, innocently tilting her head and shifting her hips _just so_  against him, and his eyes flutter shut in bliss.

 

Far above them, the three men watching quickly avert their eyes and turn away in varying degrees of mortification.

 

Jaime snickers, shaking his head. “That wasn’t a fight we were watching. That was  _foreplay_.”

 

Tyrion loudly clears his throat. “Well, Ser Davos, you’re welcome to take lunch with us instead, seeing as Lord Gendry is rather occupied at the moment.”

 

The Onion Knight smiles ruefully down at the King’s Hand as the three of them make their way to the Great Hall. “They grow up too fast.”

 

* * *

 

Arya flicks her gaze up to the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Their adoring fans are gone.

 

_Good,_ she thinks _._  Not that she will ever be ashamed to show her love for Gendry, to touch him freely in front of others, but this moment, here in the warm sunlight as the sea breeze ruffles through their hair, belongs to them and them alone.

 

She trails her hands slowly up over the hard planes of his glistening chest, biting her lip as she admires the sight of him flushed beneath her, in broad daylight.

 

“I missed you, love.” she admits in his ear, emitting a low gasp when Gendry reaches up to grasp her hips and press her down onto him.

 

He’s firm and throbbing against her belly, and the blush spreading over her face does nothing to help calm the fire coursing through his veins. 

 

He tenderly brushes her hair away from her face. “I was afraid you weren’t coming back. That you were going to stay at Winterfell and forget me.”

 

She smiles softly and leans down to press her forehead against his. “As though I could ever forget you. Not even the House of Black and White could erase you from my memory. And they tried, believe me.”

 

He trails warm fingers against her cheeks, down to her chin, and guides her mouth to his. “My  _family_ , my  _wife_ ,” he breathes against her lips, kissing her as though he were a man dying of thirst in a desert, and she’s the life-giving oasis that saved him.

 

Arya brings her fingers up to tangle in his hair. “Not yet,” she reminds him breathlessly between kisses. “A whole three months to go until I meet you in the godswood.”

 

“Aye, that’s true,” he mumbles, his tongue coaxing her lips apart and swallowing her moans, “but you’re my wife, even so. And you’ve been my only family for years now.”

 

Because Gendry can’t bring himself to give a shit about the ceremonies. He is hers, and she is his, and they’ve been married ever since she stumbled into his arms after the burning of King’s Landing, as far as he’s concerned. 

 

She pulls away from their kiss to regard him with large eyes. Suddenly, Arya seems much more like a shy doe than the fierce she-wolf he’d been sparring with, and a wave of protectiveness washes over Gendry. 

 

Arya swallows. “I never imagined I’d ever get married. I didn’t want to just be a womb for some stupid old lord to produce sons. So many women have been chained into it by our society, I didn’t want to be one of them. I never thought I’d fall in love, not before I met you.” She pauses.

 

Gendry nods, kisses her knuckles, and waits for her to continue.

 

She leans in to brush her lips against his. “You always protected me, you could’ve been a bully like all the rest but you were kind and good. I was just a scared little girl, but you made me feel less alone. You were such a stubborn bull, but you were my best friend in the whole world.” She blinks rapidly, trying to clear the tears welling up at the memories. “I would’ve died back then, had it not been for you.”

 

There’s a lump in Gendry’s throat. “ _Arya_ ,” he breathes, and he surges forward to kiss her more fiercely than ever. “You saved me too, so many times,” he says roughly. “I never would’ve left you on your own, I should’ve listened to your distrust of the Brotherhood. After Davos helped me escape the Red Woman, I tried so hard to find out where you’d gone. A part of me  _did_  die that day, when I heard you’d been killed at the Twins. I never forgave myself for my stupidity.”

 

Arya hugs him close. “I’m here. I have you, now.”

 

Gendry holds her tight, and he’s never letting her go again. “You have me, now and always.” he promises.

 

Arya smiles against his mouth, and she pulls away to beam at him. “I need a bath.” She whispers, running her hands down his bare torso. “I’m very sweaty, and tired from my long journey. Help me wash, husband mine?” Her eyes grow large again as she looks at him imploringly. 

 

Gendry moves to stand, but he keeps Arya in place when she tries to climb off him. He grips his hammer and holds his Lady in his arms, and she lets him carry her back to the Red Keep. 

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, Arya wakes up to the late afternoon sun streaming through the curtains of the chambers she’d lived in the last time she had been in King’s Landing, when her father was still Hand to King Robert Baratheon, and she and Sansa were still mortal enemies, back when she was still learning water dancing from Syrio Forel. Before her world and family were torn apart by Cersei, before she’d run into Hot Pie and Lommy, before Gendry had come to her aid and asked her where she’d stolen her Needle.

 

All of it seems like another lifetime ago, like the past few years have been a dream, like she’ll wake up any minute now, in the same bed, and she’ll be 11 again and still have a Father and a Mother, and Robb and Rickon.

 

Arya turns to her side; the sheets are cool against her bare skin, but she is very warm, thanks to Gendry who is wrapped around her, with his nose buried in her hair as he sleeps on.

 

Had she been told, years ago when they were still being hunted through the Riverlands by Lannister men, that she would be married to her stubborn Bull, and that she’d be waking up next to him in the Red Keep not as a prisoner waiting to be killed, but as the Princess (however much she loathed that title) of the Six Kingdoms and the North, and that her crippled little brother would be the Sovereign himself, she would have laughed in their face and pushed them into the dirt for spewing out such a nonsensical lie.

 

That Sansa would be Queen in the North, and love Arya enough to want her little sister to sleep in the same bed as her every night after they reunited, to make up for the years of lost time, the years when sisters become friends.

 

That she would see her beloved Jon again, her brother for always, no matter whose son he was, and that she’d see him happy at Winterfell, supporting Sansa’s rule as her most trusted advisor.

 

That Gendry would look at her like she’s his sun-and-stars, with gazes full of awe and love and unending hunger for her, instead of the grubby little girl he’d spent two years protecting, mussing up her hair and teasing her and perpetually getting on her nerves.

 

_Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle._

 

Gendry shifts in his sleep, and instinctively moves closer to her warmth, securing her fully in the circle of his arms.

 

Arya leans back, ever so slightly, so that she can get a better view of him. She reaches out to trace a finger lightly down the bridge of his nose, over his rough, stubbled jaw, over his lips, which are still pink from her kisses hours before.

 

Blue eyes, bluer than the famous Braavosi canals she’d spent so long near, crack open to regard her, and the lips she’s tracing press a gentle kiss to her fingers.

 

“Hello,” Gendry croaks, and he stretches a little before smiling tiredly down at her. “Did you sleep well?” 

 

Arya flashes him a satisfied grin. “Better than I’ve had in four months.”

 

She sighs into his mouth when he leans down to capture her lips for perhaps the hundredth time that day, but it still feels as thrilling as the first time. She melts beneath him as he rolls over to gently press her into the sheets.

 

He’d been feverishly attentive to her during their bath, taking care to wash every inch of her skin and pressing searing kisses all over her. His strong hands had held her hips still as she sat in his lap and washed his hair for him, trying unsuccessfully to deter her sweet, torturous movements above him, but he’d groaned in defeat when Arya reached down between them.

 

“Wait,” Gendry had hissed when her fingers closed around him to take him inside her. He kissed down the side of her jaw to suckle her earlobe. “Want to take care of you,” he’d mumbled, his warm breath tickling her neck, his fingers reaching between her legs to stroke her slick heat, rubbing lazy circles around her clit and sending tidal waves of sweet pleasure coursing though her.

 

“Gendry…” she’d tossed her head back in pure bliss as he slipped a calloused finger into her, and then another. The hot coil in her belly wound tighter and tighter as he worked her, and she whimpered against his lips as he stroked against something that made her see stars.

 

He’d grinned up at her. “Yes, love?”

 

“Gendry, I want…” she’d panted, “I want…”

 

He kissed down her throat, curled his fingers inside her, and suddenly the tight coil deep in her belly snapped, and Arya fell over the edge crying out his name.

 

Gendry laughed softly, holding her quivering body against him, helping her come back down to earth. “That?”

 

She’d grabbed his chin to kiss the smirk from his lips, and he instantly melted into her mouth. 

 

“You. I want you,” she’d corrected, “I’ve wanted nothing else but the feel of you inside me and your taste on my lips for months,  _husband_.” She admitted sweetly, and he’d  _never_  been so damn hard in his life. 

 

He’d flushed at her confession, and gazed up at her in pure adoration. He couldn’t deny her anything, not anymore.

 

“As M’Lady commands,” Gendry breathed, and made love to her over and over, until they collapsed into bed hours later, utterly spent and sated.

 

* * *

 

They’re just reacquainting themselves with each other when a low growl rumbles from Arya’s stomach, and they break apart, bursting into laughter. 

 

“And here I was, thinking I’d finally satisfied you,” Gendry sighs, pushing himself off her and holding out a hand to pull her up with him. 

 

“Nonsense. To gratify me in the way you’re insinuating, you’d have to have me like this three times a day, every day,” Arya smiles, her eyes glittering with mirth.

 

Gendry’s mouth falls open at her words. “Gods, Arya. Don’t tempt me.” His hands come up to trace the scars crossing her belly, the scars he’d spent ages lavishing his attention and his warm lips upon. 

 

She hums in reply, and kisses his cheek before leaping off the bed to pull on her breeches. 

 

He watches her from his perch against the pillows. “What would you like to eat? I’ll go bring whatever you want from the kitchens.”

 

Arya pauses to pull her tunic over her head. “Thanks, but I think my brother wanted us to take supper with him.”

 

Gendry nods, and looks out the windows to see the sun starting to sink closer to the edge of the horizon, casting deep orange bands of light over the sea in the distance. “Then we should get going.” He climbs off the bed in search of his discarded clothing.

 

He manages to find his breeches and his undershirt, but his leather tunic is nowhere in sight. He turns around to find Arya holding it, she's smoothing it out on the bed, running her fingers over the jagged slashes on its shoulders, an immensely soft expression on her face.

 

Gendry moves so that he’s pressed up behind her, and winds his arms around her middle. “Those weren’t there originally,” he says quietly, and he dips his head to kiss the back of her neck. “I wanted everyone to know I was yours without actually saying it. I think they got the message well enough, because the other Stormlords haven’t brought up marriage proposals ever since.”

 

Arya turns in his arms to peer up at him with tender eyes. “I should wear something of yours, then. Make it even.” She whispers.

 

Gendry kisses her forehead, then her nose, then finally her lips. “Always trying to one-up me,” he teases, and dodges when she aims a smack at his head. 

 

 “You’re getting better at that, I see.”

 

“M’lady’s a good teacher,” Gendry quips back. He takes her hands in his own. “I’d give you my cloak to keep, but  _tradition_  says I must save it until our wedding.” He grins and tilts his head, considering her. “I’ll make you a new hilt for your Valyrian steel dagger. Make it black and yellow, if you like,” he murmurs. 

 

Arya reaches up to plant one more lingering kiss to his lips. “I’ll hold you to it.” She smiles, and pulls him by the hands out the door.

 

Daylight still lingers in the sky outside as Arya pushes open the large oak doors to the Great Hall, a clear sign of winter’s final death. The days during the last few years had steadily declined in length, growing shorter and shorter until the entire world had only a handful of hours in which their candles and lanterns remained unlit.

 

Until the end of the Long Night, when Arya thrust her dagger deep into the Night King's frozen heart, and destroyed Death himself.

 

Dawn had returned to shine down upon the world, and the warming rays of the sun brought life and greenery and hope back to Westeros.

 

Arya and Gendry walk in to find the newly-rebuilt Hall deserted, the long tables empty, save for a few members of the Royal court on the far end. Gendry glances at her, his brows knitting together in confusion. She wordlessly shrugs at him.

 

“Excuse me Milord, Princess Arya,” (the Princess in question grits her teeth at the title) says a kitchen boy carrying a large platter of fruits and cheese. “His Grace wished to take a private supper out on the upper terrace. He wants you to join him there. Please follow me.”

 

The kitchen boy leads them up through the castle, up many flights of new stairs, until they reach an unfamiliar landing that faces two intricately carved wooden doors.

 

Gendry pushes them open to help the kitchen boy pass through, and they find themselves standing on a vast open balcony, high over the rest of the Red Keep, with candles and lanterns glittering everywhere as the sunset turns the sky around them pink.

 

There’s a single long table in the middle of the terrace, and there Bran is seated, along with Brienne, Podrick, Davos, the Lannister brothers, Samwell Tarly and his Wildling wife Gilly, and (to no one’s great pleasure) Lord Bronn of Highgarden. The young King looks up and smiles at the newcomers.

 

“Welcome, sister,” he pats the empty seat next to him at the head of the table. “And Lord Gendry,” he nods. “We had a bit of a change in dinner plans, so I sent Terry here to fetch you.”

 

Arya smiles at her brother, and takes her place beside him, and Gendry seats himself on her other side. Terry the kitchen boy sets down the enormous platter with some difficulty, and for his effort, Arya slips him a large strawberry pastry from a nearby plate. “Thank you.” she tells him kindly, and the young lad blushes furiously at being directly addressed by the Bringer of the Dawn herself, taking the sweet from her with slightly shaking hands, and he all but flees from the room.

 

Gendry watches the exchange with a fond smile. “You highborns aren’t so bad after all,” he concedes. Arya elbows him in the ribs, and he laughs.

 

The bright orange-pink of the sinking sun fades to pale purple dusk, and the candlelight casts warm glows all around the table as they all tuck into their food, engaging each other in familiar conversation over the clatter of plates and cutlery.

 

Halfway through the first course of creamy soup Bran inquires Arya about their sister in the North. 

 

“Is Sansa happy, there?” Bran asks slowly. “I know she didn’t want our family separated.”

 

“She is,” Arya assures him, “She’s already had Winterfell and Winter Town rebuilt, and she’s overseeing the allocation of lands to the Windlings, with Jon’s help. I think,” she pauses, looking out at the city over the edge of the balcony, “I think this is what she was always meant to be. A Queen. She’s never felt more at home than she does now.”

 

“She was,” Bran agrees. “I try to check up on her when I’m flying as a raven. She looked happy the last time I saw her, but also a little down. I’m sure it’s because she misses you.”

 

“She misses  _you_  too. She worries for her little brother down South, in what she describes as a rotten nest of vipers.”

 

Tyrion, who had been listening in ever since their conversation turned to Sansa, now spoke up. “She wasn’t wrong, Lady Arya,” he says with a sad smile, “She’d suffered the most while she was trapped here as my sister’s prisoner. It’s because of this that I, and the rest of us sitting here, are trying our best to rid this capital of those very snakes. We want to do our part to leave that world behind us, and amend for our pasts.”

 

Arya looks out over the others eating at their table. Once upon a time, she would have felt in danger among them, especially with Jaime Lannister, but so much has happened since then, so much has changed, that she not only feels comfortable sitting here with them, but at peace.

 

With a pang, she thinks of how scared Sansa must have felt, during those years she was held in this very castle, and what horrors she went through. Arya wishes her sister could see the Red Keep now, under their brother’s rule, and how it’s nearly unrecognizable from those days when it was ruled under tyranny and greed, and the Lannister Queen’s insatiable lust for power.

 

“Sansa didn’t want me to leave,” Arya whispers, then. Bran gives her a small smile, for he’d known this, too. “She didn’t want me to come back down here, she’d wanted me to stay in Winterfell with her and Jon.”

 

Gendry puts down his fork, and Arya feels his eyes on her. “I told her, that my family wasn’t just in Winterfell. I needed to come back and watch over you here,” She tells her brother softly, and reaches beneath the table to grip Gendry’s hand. “And I made a promise, to be Lord Baratheon’s wife. I’m his family, too.”

 

Gendry’s heart swells, and suddenly it’s too big for his chest, and he squeezes her fingers in return. 

 

“We know,” drawls Jaime Lannister nearby. “No one here is in doubt of  _that_. Incidentally, when is the happy day? We’re all dying for a bit of merriment, although this afternoon seemed plenty merry for you two.” His eyes flash with a hint of a smirk over his goblet of wine.

 

“Were you impressed by our fighting skills that much, Ser Jaime, to watch us for as long as you did?” Arya shoots back coolly. Jaime’s eyes widen in shock.

 

Gendry nearly spits out his ale. “He  _saw_ us?” He sputters. He hadn’t merely sparred with his Lady in those gardens, they’d also… he flushes at the thought. This gods-damned castle really did have eyes everywhere.

 

“Oh, it wasn’t just Ser Jaime,” Arya informs him brightly. “I believe Lord Tyrion and Ser Davos were present, too.”

 

Gendry whips his head around to throw Davos a look that could have roasted him. 

 

The Onion Knight feverishly shakes his head in denial. “No no, my boy, I only happened to stumble upon you two by accident, believe me lad, I had no intention of - “

 

Arya leans across to place a hand on the old smuggler’s arm. “It’s alright, Ser Davos. Don’t worry about it.” When the anxious expression still doesn’t leave the Knight’s face, she smiles. “Come eat meals with us from now on, Ser. Gendry doesn’t admit it, but he’s missed you these past few weeks.” She’s grown rather fond of the man who had taken such good care of her beloved Jon and her Gendry.

 

Gendry drops the act at once, and nods at his now-father figure. “It’s true. I’ve been so busy running between here and Stormlands, but I’d be lying if I didn’t miss your company and your considerable wisdom.”

 

Davos bursts out into laughter, smiling at the best Baratheon he’s ever known, after his little Shireen. “Not sure about the wisdom part, but I’d be glad to provide you with my company and bad jokes for as long as you want.”

 

“Still, you haven’t told us when your happy day is,” wheedles Jaime, who has since recovered from his shock and has now gone right back to being a thorn in Arya's side.

 

“In about three months, Ser Jaime.” replies Gendry, looking at Arya. He squeezes her fingers again, her hand so small and warm in his own. “We’ll be married at Winterfell. When’s yours?” He shoots back.

 

The entire table hides their grins, and even the King himself spoons more stew into his mouth to keep his expression neutral.

 

Brienne turns pink, and Jaime’s face bypasses it entirely to burn scarlet. Arya decides to rescue them, if only because she loves the tall, blue-eyed Lady Knight across her.

 

“Sansa would be happy to see you married at Winterfell, too.” She gently tells Brienne. “She misses you a lot. Come North with us when we go.”

 

The Kingsguard Commander looks over at her King. “If Your Grace will allow, it will be my honor to see Queen Sansa again.” She turns to cast Jaime a shy smile, “and if you have no objection to it,” she says softly.

 

Arya swears she’s never seen Jaime look at anyone so tenderly. “I will go wherever you go, Ser Brienne,” he says simply. “Anywhere, as long as I get to marry you, and call you mine.” 

 

Brienne blushes as red as Jaime does, unable to keep the joy off her face. Podrick pats her hand beside her. “Your Grace, I will be happy to remain here with the other Kingsguard while Sers Brienne and Jaime go North.” He pipes up.

 

Brienne swiftly turns to her former squire, now a young and capable Knight whom she loves like a little brother. “But I want you to be there too, Podrick,” she says quietly. “You can’t miss your own commander’s wedding, after all,” she declares, and Podrick beams at her.

 

Bran waves his assent. “You may come with us to Winterfell in three months’ time. The Grand Maester and our Master of Coin will manage affairs here until our return.”

 

Samwell nods eagerly. “Worry not, Your Grace, Lord Bronn and I will take care of everything.” He wilts a little then, as Bronn shoots him a withering look.

 

“Yes yes, you all go ahead and run off to your weddings and your celebrations, we’ll do all your work for you and run the Six Kingdoms in the meanwhile,” drawls the Master of Coin. “At least the North will be paying for these things, Highgarden can’t afford to be doling out gold for parties and funding the realm at the same time.” He grumbles under his breath.

 

The rest of the conversation fades into jumbled words in Arya’s ears, as she leans back in her seat to watch the twilight blanket the city and the sea in the distance in purple hues, and the stars are beginning to wink into existence far above them. The night air is cool, but the numerous candles provide warmth, and the weight of delicious food in her belly is a welcome feeling after nearly three weeks of riding down the Kingsroad from Winterfell.

 

Arya blinks slowly, her eyelids becoming heavier by the minute. She’s _not_ sleepy, she  _will_  stay awake and alert to pay attention to the very important discussions taking place, she’s a damned Faceless assassin for gods’ sake…

 

Gendry feels something small and warm press into his side, and he looks down see his wife-to-be leaning against him as though he were a particularly comfortable pillow. 

 

Arya’s pulled from her doze just long enough to register Gendry’s arm wrapping around her. “Shall I take you to bed, M’lady?” He whispers, his breath warm in her ear, his smile clear in his voice. 

 

She hums softly in protest, her eyelids refusing to remain open any longer. “M’ awake,” she mumbles, “M’ just resting my eyes for a while.” A yawn promptly betrays her words.

 

Little Arya Stark would have never allowed herself to fall asleep in the company of anyone but her family, would rather have died than expose such vulnerability, but she isn’t worried tonight. The people at this table are her pack now, too. The Lannister lions sitting nearby are tame.

 

This place is no longer the den of venomous snakes where her family had suffered so much. It is a stronghold that protects the ones she loves the most, her old friends and new, and as long as she lives, she will honor her promise to Sandor Clegane. She will choose her family, her life, and give everything she has to ensure their happiness. But for now, Arya Stark will rest.

 

Gendry presses a kiss to the crown of her head, like her Lord father used to, every night before he tucked her into bed. 

 

During moments like these, she can swear her Father sent Gendry to watch over her in his place. 

 

 “Awake. Of course.” Gendry chuckles into her hair. “With your eyes closed. Don’t start snoring on us, M’Lady.” Arya mumbles an incoherent retort, aiming a kick to his shin with all the accuracy of a drunken archer firing arrows into the night, and her leg meets nothing but air.

 

Gendry now laughs in earnest, the sound reverberates deep in his chest and gently lulls her to sleep, nestled in his arms. 

 

The others at the table smile at the sight, and take care to speak in hushed tones for the rest of the evening. 


End file.
